


before anything greater comes

by Kalgalen



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Alessandra Being Proud Of Juno, Gen, Juno Learning How To Deal With His Feelings, Mention of Past Abuse, Peter Is A terrible Doodler But Somehow Manages To Be Understood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 11:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13316871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgalen/pseuds/Kalgalen
Summary: Juno needs relationship advice. Alessandra, being married and therefore an expert on the matter, is only too happy to help.(Or she would be, if he hadn't chosen to call at three in the goddamn morning.)





	before anything greater comes

**Author's Note:**

> had this idea at work earlier and had to write it down as soon as i got home because their relationship gives me life
> 
> title from landed on mars by atlas bound which i listened to on repeat while writing this so please do check it out it's a Good Song

In hindsight, calling your ex (not-quite ex, almost-ex, ex that could-have-been) at three in the morning to ask her for advice concerning your love life might not be the smartest thing you could have done - but hey, it’s not like people like you for your brains anyway, right? And by now, Alessandra has probably learned to expect that from you, so you just shrug it off and wait.

She finally picks up after five rings and groans into the phone, sounding sleepy and annoyed.

“What do you want, Steel?”

You open your mouth to answer - “Alessandra-” and the words swell in your throat like helium-inflated balloons all trying to escape at the same time. “I-”

“Crap,” she curses, her tone low. “Hang on.” You can hear muffled sounds, a hazy question in a voice you don’t know and a soothing answer in one you do - Alessandra whispering reassurances, impossibly tender: _“Nothing, babe. Go back to sleep.”_

Of course. She’s married, now. You viciously chain down the surge of ( _jealousy/envy/longing_ ) that threatens to swallow you, lock it up as if it was an overzealous watchdog intent on never, ever letting any kind of peace approach you. You sigh. She’s married. Good for her - and you mean it.

More noise at the other end of the phone, rustling of fabric and feet against similiwood, a door opening and closing. Next time she talks, Alessandra’s voice comes with an echo, reverberated against tile.

“I hope you have a good reason for that,” she says, but she sounds marginally less irked, maybe even a bit worried - because she knows you, and she knows you bring bad news - no, no she’s worried because she’s your _friend_. That’s what _friends_ do, you remind yourself.

“‘lessandra,” you try again - deep breath, one thought at a time, you remind yourself. “I need help.”

She hums, resigned. “Yeah, I figured out that much. So, what’s up this time? Are we breaking into the HCPD’s archives? Kidnapping someone?”

Despite the situation, you smile. “Uh. No. No, this time it’s for a more, uh, personal business.”

“Alright,” she says. You can hear her exhale softly - sitting down on the edge of the bathtub, maybe, or leaning her back against a wall. “Shoot.”

“Well,” you say, dragging out the word. Your fingers absently smooth out the slip of paper on your desk, crumpled from being thrown out in the trash and fished out again too many times.

Alessandra grows impatient. “Come on, Steel, I don’t have all night.”

“Okay!” you say. “Okay. Sorry.” Deep breath, again. You’re stalling - realizing it’s going to be an awkward conversation, regretting even picking up the phone, thinking about - no, no thinking. Speak up. You square your shoulders, will your tone to stay neutral, and say: “Do you remember the- the guy I told you about? On the Saffron case?”

Alessandra snorts. “The one you rejected me for? Yeah, Juno, I remember.” (She’s using your first name again, that’s good, that’s reassuring.) “What about him?”

“I, uh.” Your eyes drift down toward the note, the black ink still stark even against the stained paper, even in the semi-darkness of your office. “I think he asked me on a date.”

She laughs, the traitor, her burst bouncing sharply against the walls of the bathroom until she remembers her wife sleeping nearby and stifles it in the palm of her hand.

“Juno,” she says, and you can picture her expression perfectly, a bit incredulous, a bit amused. “Do you… need me to tell you how to react to someone asking you out?”

You stutter, defensive. “No! ‘Course not! It’s just that I’m… not sure that’s what he meant. I could use a second opinion.”

Alessandra sighs, but it’s fond this time, like she’s indulging your unjustified bout of panic.

“Alright. What did he say?”

You huff, once again recognizing the absurdity of the situation. You called a trusted colleague - someone you have an history with - to help you decrypt the message of a criminal - with whom you also have an history, etched deep into your skin and in your soul, an history you have tried to run away from but without ever being able to leave it entirely behind. You have mostly managed to dismiss the flowers (from _someone else_ , certainly - can’t be _him_ , not again - did Engstrom survive, is he sending you a message?) but the note that was on your desk this morning - door and windows still locked, alarm undisturbed, _how does he keep doing that_ \- can only come from one person.

“A rose, a vertical rectangle with a circle in the middle followed by a bunch of letters and the number 2400, a star on top of something I _think_ is a tree but don’t quote me on this - and a - uh, a heart?”

Silence answers you for a couple of seconds, and you check your comms in case you’ve been disconnected, but then Alessandra says flatly: “What.”

“Uh, yeah,” you chuckle awkwardly. “That’s a - a _thing_ he does. Doodles. He’s pretty bad at it, actually.” It took you four hours and Rita’s questionable help to make sense of the chaotic mess of lines. “First time I saw that stuff, I was sure it was some kind of code. I guess he took it as a suggestion?”

“You found an interesting specimen here, Steel,” she says, and she sounds - proud? Happy for you? You shift uncomfortably in your chair.

“Yeah, well,” you says evasively. “Not gonna be super interesting if I can’t figure out what he means by those scribbles.”

“Fair enough. What do _you_ think they mean?”

“The - hmmm, the rose is probably so that I know it’s him. Please, don’t ask,” you say precipitaly when you hear Alessandra breathe in to speak. She huffs, and you continue: “I guess the rectangle could be a - a watch, or something. No idea what the letters mean. Rita said the tree-thing is related to that Earth festival that happened last week, they put one up in Verena Square. And the heart…”

Mercifully, Alessandra puts an end to your suffering. “Yeah, I think I have a pretty good idea of what that last one means. So, to summarize: he’s identifying himself, setting a time and place, and making sure you know what it’s for.” Her tone becomes teasing at the end. Not so merciful, then.

“You think I have to go to Verena Square?” you ask instead of raising to it.

“Yeah. Not everyone has the means to import a whole live tree from Earth, I doubt there’s more than one available for the public to see.”

“And for the time?”

“What are the letters next to the watch?”

You look at them. They’re made of straight lines, very different from his usual looping cursive, but at least they’re comprehensible.

“Three x’s and one i, a slash bar, one x and two i’s - and then the 2400.”

“Hm,” Alessandra says thoughtfully. “Your man likes challenges, doesn’t he.”

You sputter at the label - _my man?!_ \- try to protest, “Oh - well, he-” but Alessandra keeps going, pitiless: “I mean, he did ask you to come meet him. How long has it been since you’ve last seen each other?”

“‘lessandra,” you say, pained. “It’s - complicated.” The guilt is still a raw burn, and she must sense it, because her voice gets softer.

“Sorry. I know these things take time. It’s okay.”

 _Is it_ , though? Is it okay? Some days - most days - it feels like you’re always going to feel that heavy weight over your shoulders. Ever present, ever accusing.

“You don’t know what I did to him, Alessandra.” You don’t _mean_ to say it, but the words get out before you manage to catch them and stuff them back in your chest.

“Juno-” and Alessandra sounds tired again, sifting through expressions of sympathy and coming out of it with the honest truth. “Look, maybe I don’t know the whole story, but he does. And he chose to come back, didn’t he? Give him a shot. He’s an adult, he knows what’s good for him.”

You think about it for a moment, silencing the part of you that has _her_ voice - _“your fault, monster, you hurt the people around you, keep them away and maybe you won’t be a total waste!”_ \- no, no, she was _wrong_ , let it go. He knows what’s good for him. You trust him. And if he thinks you’d be good for him, maybe you should trust him on that, too.

“Alright,” you concede. “Okay, okay. Fine.”

“Good,” she says - and here it is again, that spark of pride. Having it directed at you doesn’t feel as ill-fitting as it did before. “So, about those letters-”

“Yeah?” you say, and your tone is hopeful now. Not being able to see him now because you couldn’t solve his puzzle would be worse than ignoring his message on purpose.

“Ever heard of roman numerals?” You can vaguely remember something about that, v’s and l’s and x’s stamped on the spines of the books your mother used to keep, way back when she was still your _mother_ , instead of your very own nightmare. You grunt in confirmation, and Alessandra continues: “The x’s mean ten, the i’s mean one. You add them to get the numbers - what was the first one again?”

You barely have to look at the paper to answer. You heart is beating a little faster, a little harder at the perspective of solving the puzzle.

“Three x’s, one i.”

“Thirty one,” Alessandra translates. “The other was one x, two i’s, right?”

“Yes.”

“Twelve. That’s a date.”

“Yeah, I know.” Come on, you’ve been over that already.

“No,” Alessandra says patiently. “I mean, you’re supposed to meet him on the 31th of december. So -” her voice becomes a bit distant when she gets the comms away from her face to check the date. “Tonight.”

Your leg has started jiggling under the desk, and your fingers are beating a tattoo on its surface. Your mouth feels a little dry, too.

“Oh.”

“I thought you’d be happy about it?”

“I am! It’s just… so soon.”

“You’re meeting at midnight - 2400, that’s what it means - so you’re gonna have some time to catch up on your beauty sleep,” she jokes, and you laugh along with her. You’re not sure you can physically sleep right now - you feel as if you’re going to fall right out of your body.

A comfortable silence falls between you, before you’re reminded of the hour when you hear Alessandra’s barely concealed yawn.

“Thank you so much, ‘lessandra,” you say, tentatively apologetic.

“You’re welcome, Steel.” You can see her smirk from here. “What would you do without me?”

You ignore her. “Sorry for waking you up. Say hello to the wife for me, will you?”

“Yeah, sure.” She yawns again. “Take care, Juno. It’s going to be fine.”

You hum and cut the communication. Between your fingers, the strip of paper feels like a promise.

_Yeah, it’s going to be fine._


End file.
